Don't Let Me Down
by R. Scott
Summary: Ashes to Ashes: When it came down to it, he was the one who was there for her in the end. Not anymore though. He didn't need her. She didn't need him...Alex reluctantly picks up the pieces of a broken Gene Hunt.


Hi there! Wrote this a while back. Huge thank you to **laraandamber** for proof reading this for me- sorry I've taken such a ridiculously long time to get it posted!

Hope you enjoy! :o)

**This story contains strong language.**

* * *

_She spotted him almost instantly, lounging in his seat with an almost regal air about him, a quite stunning brunette perched beside him, her hands wandering over his suit jacket and eyes on his face, glowing with a dangerous longing. How he managed to attract such girls was beyond her- but then again, she knew him inside out. This girl had obviously fallen for his brutish charm and had not yet discovered what an arrogant prick he could be. He smirked as she whispered something in his ear and she in turn laughed manically at his reply. Alex refrained from rolling her eyes in disgust_

_She wasn't surprised that she'd found him in one of the first pubs she'd searched and scorned herself for thinking better of him. Because this was him in his element: on the verge of passing out, fag smoking in an ashtray beside him and a woman sat virtually in his lap. He took a swig from what was probably his fifth pint and noticed her for the first time. She raised her eyebrows expectantly._

_He grinned hugely, malice in his eyes, and slammed his glass on the table with absurd vigour, beer sloshing over the rim. It angered her that he didn't look particularly surprised to see her._

"_Well well well!" he said loudly, and she winced, summoning the strength to stare angrily at him from across the bar. "If it isn't my darlin' D.I Bolly Knickers, come to grace us with her damning judgmental presence_._ What's the matter love? Scared you might catch summink?"_

_She noticed she was still hovering in the doorway, and her glare intensified as she stormed towards him. His vindictive, gleeful expression turned into a cruel, satisfied smirk, the one he wore when he'd won an argument, when he knew that she was defeated. The sight sickened her._

"_I suppose I shouldn't have expected better from you," she muttered as she reached his table, folding her arms across her chest in an attempt to stop herself from shaking with fury. "You're so bloody predictable. You know this is only the second pub I've looked in?"_

"_Oh dear, ruin your fun did I?"_

"_No more than you usually do."_

"_Come off it, Bolls," he grinned darkly at her again, his arm winding around the woman beside him, who was staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and loathing. "An evening in pursuit of the Gene Genie? Nothin' _but_ fun, I think you'll find."_

_The brunette giggled again and her eyes traveled between the pair. She seemed pleased with her assessment as her eyes filled with a satisfied glow._

"_Who's this then?" she asked Gene, her voice dripping with venom and her eyes fixed on Alex, who was staring back at her with a steady, mocking glare._

"_Ooh, well, where do I begin…" Gene said, sighing dramatically and taking another swig of his drink, as if preparing himself. She readied herself for his inevitable attack and wasn't surprised by his next words._

"_Let's start with 'er role in losin' me my job."_

"_Oh, do be serious," she retorted immediately, rage building steadily inside her. She slammed her hands down on the table and leant forward. "You've been suspended, get over it. Why don't you crawl out of your own arse for five minutes and do yourself a favour."_

"_Well I take it you aint 'ere to apologise."_

"_I have nothing to apologise for," she stated simply and truthfully, trying to control her ever growing anger. "Clearly I was wrong when I thought you might want some help getting your job back."_

_In truth, she had no idea how she could possibly help him, only that she wanted to do so. Why else had she driven around looking for him? She'd even glanced in the gutters and alleyways, but surely even he couldn't stoop that low. It had only been a week since his departure from CID. He was doing nothing about it, other than not showing his face in Luigi's, avoiding the team and __avoiding __her._

_He was staring at her now with a menacing fury in his eyes, his mouth a thin line and his hand stopping its journey down the brunette's waist._

"_I don't need your 'elp," he spat at her, a slight slur in his words that exposed his level of intoxication. She narrowed her eyes._

"_Evidently," she hissed, looking him up and down and sneering and suddenly, out of nowhere, he grabbed her wrist forcefully, yanking her towards him. She couldn't disguise her shock and let out a small, strained gasp, the woman beside him looking on in scared fascination. Gene ignored her completely, his dark eyes focused solely on Alex._

"_I don't need your help," he said in a low, dangerous voice that made her shudder, that made her skin crawl. "You think you can trot in 'ere with your holier-than-thou bollocks and turn me into a new man? Wave your psycho-babble in my face and convince me to march up to the Super with a nice written apology, ey?"_

_The grip on her wrist suddenly hurt and she tried to pull away but he held her tightly, clearly not finished. She was trapped in a somewhat terrifying hold: although she knew he was capable of it, she'd never once imagined he'd turn on her quite like this. This violent, destructive action was all too familiar, she'd seen it before again and again…but never directed at her. She hadn't thought him capable._

_His face was impossibly close to hers and she was quite sure she'd never hated him more as he muttered the final blow._

"_I don't need you. Never 'ave. Never will."_

_He suddenly looked down and saw her hand gripped furiously in his, his eyes staying there for a long moment. Quickly, he released her and she yanked her wrist back, holding it at her chest. She breathed heavily, swallowed the lump in her throat as he finally looked back at her, guilt flashing for an instant in his eyes. He looked tired as he resumed glaring at her, because of course he wouldn't apologise. When had he ever apologised…?_

"_Get the fuck out o' my sight," he said, closing his eyes._

_She stuck her chin out defiantly, a sudden pain hitting her. The woman beside Gene, too drunk and too stupid to walk away from him, stared at her indifferently before resuming her original position, her arm flung across his chest._

_The sight almost made her pity them, but she was too blind with her own fury, a bitter sting in her eyes, too stubborn to cry._

"_Fine." Alex whispered. She walked away._

_She'd given up on him._

* * *

Lately, it seemed, the trek up the stairs to her tiny flat was exhausting. When she finally reached her door and, after struggling with the key, tumbled through it, she wanted nothing more than to collapse on the spot or, preferably, onto her bed. Maybe it was because she'd once again managed to work her way through two bottles of red wine, or maybe she'd just had a long day. Maybe the misery that had been threatening to devour her recently had decided to rear its hideous head, punishing her. She didn't know. All she knew was that she felt terrible.

She leant against the door once it was closed, her head rolling back and thudding against the wood, and sighed. It had been a long day, too long really, but all days seemed to blur together now, miserable and tiring and…empty. Empty of purpose, empty of him.

She closed her eyes as her mind wandered towards him, as it often did, pressing her thumb and finger to her temple. She seemed to sober up instantly, her drunken pain replaced by something resembling rage. She hated thinking about him. Especially now, as her intense emotions tended to rule her, from anger to concern to worry and then eventually returning to misery again.

Sighing again, she walked the few steps to her bedroom, shrugged off her jacket and threw it on the bed, replacing it with an over-sized jumper that she found in the wardrobe. She shivered - maybe she was becoming ill, feeling cold and tired…and she frowned. She'd only been ill here once before and she swallowed the rising panic as she thought of those days, of the what ifs.

She huffed, angry at herself for scaring herself over something so ridiculous. She was paranoid. Maybe Gene's absence had hit her harder than she would have liked, than she even realised, because when it came down to it he was the one who was there for her in the end. Not anymore though.

He didn't need her. She didn't need him

Rubbing her arms, she absent-mindedly flicked the kettle on as she wandered through the kitchen into the living room.

She froze.

At first she didn't know quite how to react. She felt a gasp die in her dry throat and she let out a short, startled breath, too numb to do anything else apart from frown in disbelief.

He lay motionless on her sofa, on his front and his left arm hanging over the edge. She might have thought he was dead if it weren't for the sound of his heavy, laboured breathing filling the silence of the room. He was still wearing his coat, a black silhouette save for the golden, dishevelled mess of hair.

Here he was. Gene Hunt, passed out on her own bloody sofa, in her home, and good lord she could just kick him where he lay, beat him to a pulp because she couldn't believe the nerve, the sheer _cheek_ of this infuriating, horrible mess of a man.

What the_ hell _was he doing here?

She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes and allowing her anger to slowly fade, calming herself. She bit her lip, finally able to move if only a little, and felt the thudding of her heart slow slightly. Luigi must have let him in. He could have warned her. Surely he would have warned her…

Hesitantly, dreamlike, she wandered over to him, slowly, peering tentatively at him as if he were a wild animal.

"Gene…" she muttered. She didn't need this, not now, not from him, this man who she hated beyond belief: after the days and weeks she had suffered she was in no mood to be forgiving.

She saw his face.

He'd been in a fight.

"Shit…" she muttered, the words leaving her mouth in a strained, tired moan. "Oh…_shit_…"

She sighed as she crouched down beside him, running a shaking hand over her face, and closed her eyes for a long moment. Don't do this to me, Gene. Don't you dare to this to me…

Gently she pushed his matted hair from his face to get a better look, her hand trembling slightly and her throat inexplicably sore. He frowned in his sleep, hissing in pain as her hand wandered over his forehead, brushing over one of the many red marks that scarred him, and she instantly retracted it in a sharp movement. His lip was cut badly, swollen and bloody, and his closed eyelids were bruised. She couldn't determine the full extent of his injuries but he winced again as her hand rested on his shoulder.

He was in a bad way.

And then, slowly and in evident pain, he opened his eyes.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and she was unsure what to say, what to do next. The sight in itself was pathetic, if she was being honest with herself, and she still felt the pain from their previous encounter. But still, he looked so…forlorn. Lost. Broken. His eyes, heavy and tired, seemed to be pleading silently with her, revealing something in him that he obviously did his best to keep hidden.

Agonisingly slowly, he lifted his hand and she instinctively flinched, pulling away slightly. But only slightly…his hand found its way to her face, and he rested it there, thumb on her cheek, calloused and dry.

He was still frowning…but he seemed in genuine agony, a sadness written plainly on his face that she was never meant to see.

"It's you…" he murmured, his voice low and scratchy. He ran his thumb along her cheek bone, as if making sure she was really there. She let him, too tired to be angry with him anymore. "It's you. You're 'ere."

She swallowed again, and could feel tears sting her eyes and she had to close them, a strange pain worming its way through her. She felt numb and cold and ill. She sighed, shaking.

"You…" she began in a whisper, and she pressed a hand to her forehead. "You stupid…_stupid_ man…"

She opened her eyes again, and the expression on his face hadn't changed. If anything his eyes were now gazing at her with a frightening intensity, dark and undeniably lonely. She obliviously placed her hand over his where it rested on her jaw. He looked so alone she'd probably forgive him anything right now.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered, an edge to her voice because only he could possibly cause her this pain, only he could make her want to utterly destroy him and kiss all his worries away at the same time.

He didn't let his gaze stray away from her tired eyes, his thumb continued to trace the features of her face, as if he couldn't see them. He sighed, and the sound caused a single, bitter tear to trail down her face. She wiped it away stubbornly.

"My Bolly…" he said, and it sounded more like a moan, full of agony and exhaustion, bitterness and sorrow. He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, resigned and accepting, as if he'd just had a revelation. He was so broken…she didn't want to think about who had done this to him, or how he had let them get away with it.

Though he had only himself to blame.

"I'm not yours," she sighed bitterly, but she squeezed his hand in a comforting gesture, noticing the cuts and scrapes on his knuckles. Her voice didn't rise above a whisper as she spoke. "What have you done to yourself?"

Somehow his mouth turned upward into a bitter smirk, as though he'd been expecting that question, but soon his face turned back into a sorrowful mess again. His hand hadn't moved from her face.

"Don't matter…" he muttered, sounding resentful. The stench of alcohol suddenly hit her as he let out a long, tired breath, and she wondered how drunk he was, if he even realised what a complete mess he was in. "You're 'ere."

She wondered why he kept repeating that, as if he were unable to believe it. She was so livid, so upset with him that she had to close her eyes again, because looking at the state he was in made her want to hold him so tightly, made her want to take care of him when he deserved nothing. He didn't deserve her.

But she couldn't move away from him.

He needed to get back to work. Soon. Next time, he'd no doubt wind up dead. How could he let this happen, the fool, how could he allow himself to sink so ridiculously low? She hated him for letting it get this far, for wallowing in his misery and allowing it to consume him.

"You need to go to the hospital," she said sadly, reaching for the phone in a daze.

He grabbed her wrist again. Not as forcefully as before, but it caused her to halt, staring at him. She wasn't afraid of him. Just…numb.

"No…" he muttered, and he stared again at where their hands were joined, his eyes full of anguish, guilt and pain, and that _did_ frighten her. He was so…weak. This wasn't him. He wasn't meant to be like this.

He pulled her hand toward him and held it at his cut lip, and she could have easily pulled away but she was unsure what he would do. He wouldn't hurt her. He'd never hurt her, he hadn't meant to…

"I didn't mean to…" he said in a hurried, fumbled whisper, as if reading her thoughts, as if it pained him even more to say the words. Her throat tightened and tears threatened to spill again, because he was so sincere; too sincere really, too open and honest, in a way she'd never seen in him before. "I didn't mean to…"

"I know," she said quietly, stopping him from repeating it again and again as he no doubt would. He must have been drunker than she first thought, he had no idea what he was saying. "I know."

He closed his eyes, sighing again.

"I didn't mean to," he whispered. He was unable to truly apologise. She supposed this was as good as it would get. He would never apologise.

He tried to make himself more comfortable, but groaned in pain, his whole body suffering, and she stood up straight in order to help him.

"No…" he moaned. Seeing her stand up, he must have thought she was leaving. "You don't 'ave to go…"

Which of course meant…_don't go_.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said in a quiet voice, because she couldn't leave him now, no matter how much she hated him. He'd been there for her, hadn't he, when she'd needed him, and she hadn't even asked. He'd come to her for help…why else would he be here? She sat on the small space left on the sofa, feeling drained as she allowed herself to rest, if only a little.

"I do need you…" he said, his eyes still closed, and he was holding onto her wrist again, apparently afraid she would escape him. She felt her breathing growing heavy, her heart pounding in her chest. "I didn't mean it…before…"

"Oh _stop it_," she said, her voice shaking and even to her own ears it sounded more like a sob. "This isn't you…you don't make any sense to me anymore! What's happened to you?"

She started to push his hair away from his face once more, and he winced again, but didn't push her away, as he tried stubbornly to remain awake.

"You…" he sighed, trying to open his eyes but exhaustion finally defeated him. "It's always you, Bolls. Always."

She let the tears flow silently, knowing he wouldn't remember this when he woke, when he was sober, after he had been seen by a doctor. When he returned to work, everything would return to normal. He'd turn back into the man she needed him to be.

He had to.

"You're mine…" he finally said, eyes firmly closed. She noticed how badly blackened they were as he allowed her to pull her hand away from his grasp, feeling cold once more. "You're mine, Bolly."

His last words before sleep claimed him disturbed her. But he was drunk. He was tired and broken and she felt like it was her duty, now, to keep him hanging on. He needed her. She sat with him silently for hours because she couldn't do much else.

She firmly believed that he wouldn't remember this, wouldn't remember his words. Perhaps they were true…she'd forgiven him already, yet the pain he had caused her still drifted in the background of her consciousness. She cared for him without question and knew that she would end up here, in the end, getting his life back on track. It was inevitable.

Maybe she _was_ his, in this world where nothing truly made sense.

In a way, she was thankful that he'd said it, because it was the most she'd get from him. He'd never tell her that he loved her. She didn't want him to.


End file.
